“He’ll try. His men, too,” Rachel said. “But they won’t win.”
Alfie would take the shortest way there, coat buttoned, papers clutched. His mouth was tight, grim.
“I don’t like this,” Felix muttered.
“Nor I,” Alfie said. “But I’m going.”
“I won’t lose a brother.”
“Then help me make it count.”
They stepped into the yard—
And Felix stopped cold.
Nine riders, all in black coats and white cravats, horses snorting steam into the damp air. Not soldiers, not quite. Shadows made flesh.
Chawa Klonimus stood among them, her sons flanking her like sentinels—Raphi, Aaron, Gideon, Ben, Caleb, Nati. Their faces were proud, unyielding.
“This is our answer,” she said. “To List. To the committee. To every man who says we don’t belong here.”
Faivish’s eyes swept wider: Nick astride a dark gelding, Andre mounted beside him, even Wendy steady at Prince Stan’s stirrup, the prince already on a tall bay.
Nick spoke first. “We ride together. Same clothes. Same hats. When it’s time, we scatter.”
Andre added, his voice iron-steady, “Let them follow. They won’t find Alfie.”
Chawa pressed a black hat into Faivish’s hands. “One hour. That’s all we need. Enough for the young marquess to stand and speak for himself and for your love to stand by the boy.”
She looked to Alfie. “You go inside, but hear me, Faivish, make them think you never did.”
Felix looked around him—doctors, craftsmen, even a prince. Jews and gentiles, bound not by law or blood but by something harder to break. None of them is here for coin. All of them for a boy. For Maisie. For the right to stand upright in England without being cut down.
“We’re doing this for our future. Our children and grandchildren’s futures,” Chawa said. “You’re doing this for her, for love.”
He shook his head. “No. Because she would have done it for me.”
Raphi’s mouth curved, tight. “She already has.”
The silence that followed was heavy, sacred.
Felix swung into the saddle. The leather groaned beneath him, his pulse hammering like a drum. “And if they fire?” he asked.
“They won’t,” Chawa said. “Word’s already out—we made it look like the young Marquess of Stonefield rode at dawn, with Prince Stan beside him. Which one of you is he?”
Raphi’s grim smile answered. “Let them guess. Fire at one, fire at us all. And the committee is watching List. He can’t afford a misstep of attacking English nobility or foreign royals.”
Felix closed his eyes for one breath. Then opened them and mounted a horse that had been readied for him.
“Let’s ride.”
And they did.
Chapter Thirty-Three
To Maisie’s relief,John slipped out through Eton’s back doors exactly as Rachel had arranged. Cap pulled low, satchel bumping at his hip, boots barely crunching on the stones—he moved like a boy trying to be invisible and almost managing it.
Maisie held the carriage door open. He climbed in without a word and dropped into the seat across from her.
